


A New Dawn. A New Day.

by coffeenurse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heaven & Hell, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Major Original Character(s), Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), Original Character(s), Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeenurse/pseuds/coffeenurse
Summary: Dawn (OC) wakes up after being dead and risen to participate in a war to protect humanity from a rift opening between earth and Purgatory. No one knows why she and thirteen others are still alive, but she is put under the care of the angel Castiel. An old friend of the Winchesters, they begin to piece together the mystery of her resurrection.https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1abnD4V3t3VU2mFatAp6Kt?si=irk-bo8MTCWhv8HC62beyw
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Original Character(s)





	1. Strange Overtones

The eerie silence that hung in the air was interrupted by a brick falling from crumbled mortar. It echoed through thick clouds of dust obscuring the light of dawn. It bounced off the bodies strewn across the upturned road, stuck through shattered windows, perched precariously from half-collapsed walls. Cement and dirt left a muddle of white and brown mist on their skin.

There was no blood spilt, merely it sat around cuts and missing limbs as if stuck in limbo between releasing and dripping. Eyes, those still intact, glassy in strained sockets. Those not intact - oozing slowly. Sunken holes in faces, legs, arms revealed bruises with no green, purple or brown.

A scene of life on pause.

Metal and plaster betray the illusion, the country houses still falling into each other, entangled in power lines. A spark occasionally jumps where they sit in a puddle of water or motor oil.

The body of a woman twitches. She is lying slanted between two pieces of bitumen separated by a dramatic crack, like tectonic plates. Her red hair fans from a loose braid, paling her skin.

Around her, the bodies are dressed in identical form-fitting armour, their weapons matching the grey-blue colouring. On her hip, a broad sword is attached to a utility belt hosting several daggers. A crossbow is mounted on her arm, outstretched towards a chunk of road above the ground. Other warriors are adorned with firearms, ammunition, varying sword types, shields, bows and arrows. She is the only one that twitches.

A loud whooping sound as she breathes in with all her might. Her green eyes are open wide, panicked and watering. She clutches at her throat as she hyperventilates, coughing and spluttering, her body spasming. She claws at the ground, her legs, her torso, an ungodly creaking emitting from her as she froths at the mouth. She rolls to her side to spit out mucus caught in her throat, then presses her forehead into the bitumen to relieve pressure from the rest of her body.

The seizure overcomes her, and her eyes eventually close. She slumps, unconscious, her body still shuddering.

The feint sound of wings flapping announces the arrival of a man out-of-place in the scene. He wears a beige trench-coat over a suit. Crouching down next to the woman, he reaches two fingers towards her head.

On impact, they disappear, the same sound of wings the only indication they existed.

  


The woman opened her eyes lazily, several sensations saturating her awareness and overwhelming her. White, beige, cream, pearl walls; blue, piercing, fluorescent lighting. They burned holes in her vision.

Her breathing quickened, her chest simply rising and falling causing panic. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she began to take in the forms of objects around her. And in her – a tube protruded from her face, forcing in oxygen.

She tries to sit up, to take the mask off her face, but she is restrained. She sees the straps on her wrists and chest. She can suddenly feel the leather cutting into her skin. She tries to speak, to scream, but can only manage a gurgle.

There is a thumping in her chest, creeping into her ears.

In a final attempt to sit up and free herself, she falls back into sleep. Her breathing eventually slows.

  


Late afternoon sun warms her bed frame. She feels it on her arm before she feels anything else.

When she opens her eyes, her vision is clear. There is nothing on her face, nor are there lights directly above her. 

She sighs, and then freezes. Yes – she is breathing. For a moment, she must remember the once automatic response. She lifts her heavy chest with one breathe, allowing its weight to push out the rest. Her heart beating causes it to shudder as it exits. Her heart beating…

She moves her head slightly to consider where the sun has settled on her arm. _It’s warm_ , she thinks. Warmth.

She notices IV drips standing by her, with tubes leading into her body and arms.

She swallows. It catches, making her eyes water and lurching her body forward. The drips squeak as they drag on the linoleum. She coughs and clutches her chest in pain.

“What the fuck…” She croaks out in a whisper, licking her cracked lips. Her throat immediately hurts after speaking. 

“You’re awake.” The monotone statement is issued from the deep voice of the trench-coated man standing by the window.

She turns to look at him, still holding her chest. She forces another breath in and holds it. She tries to let it out slowly but is caught in another cough.

This one proves more violent than the last, turning into a fit. Her eyes sting, and she can taste… She can taste!

She can taste _blood_.

She is gasping as the coughing subsides. The room begins to tilt and soften, her head lolling back. She feels a strong grip on her arm and acknowledges a plastic cup that is now in front of her.

She takes it with her free hand. _It’s cold_ , she thinks.

“You should drink this,” Trench-coat man says, “or you will fall unconscious again.”

She sips it, and sputters, but keeps sipping. The cool water soothes her raw throat, and she begins to feel grounded. Relief washes over her as she downs another cup, clearing her throat with no issue.

She sighs, content.

“Welcome back, Dawn.” The man speaks with detachment.

“Dawn?”

“Yes. That is your name.”

She frowns. “Right…”

“Do not be alarmed. Amnesia is to be expected after the trauma your body has gone through.”

“Trauma…”

“Yes. Trauma from the battle you fought several months ago.”

“Battle… Months…” Dawn began to piece together the concepts. “Yes… I was… I was dead.”

The man nods. “Yes. You were dead.”

“How…”

“We do not know. There seems to have been fourteen of you that were… for lack of a better word, ‘resurrected’. With no obvious correlation between you all.”

“‘We’…? Who are you?” Anxiety began to simmer, and an emotion that she could not put her finger on sharpened her awareness.

“My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”


	2. Then Came the Last Days of May

Distrust – that was the feeling. And now anger.

“An angel?” Dawn's mouth sets in a hard line.

“Yes.” Castiel shifts uncomfortably. “You did not like that the first time we met either.”

“Shocker.” She turns her head away from Castiel, and feels a heaviness settling in her eyes.

“You should rest.” Castiel notes as she begins to drift.

“Don’t feel obliged to stick around.” Dawn manages to retort, giving into the pull of unconsciousness.

Dawn sleeps fitfully. Nightmares, mostly. As she periodically wakes and sleeps, the room moves from dark to light and back again. The IV drips begin to reduce in number.

She starts to remember how to use a functioning body – when to eat, when to drink, use the toilet. When the drips are taken out of her, she remembers that with a working heart, you can bruise and bleed. She can feel pain, as well as the sheets she lies on, and the warmth or cool of objects. She can taste her meals. It is overwhelming, but she begins to remember the routine of survival.

The sleeping is the thing that she cannot understand. To willingly give up control to her body’s automatic functions, leaving herself in a vulnerable state, losing hours to unconsciousness. She tries to resist it but finds herself fading after only a few hours each day. The hospital staff assure her she needs to rest to regain strength, but Dawn gets the feeling nobody has answers to her underlying condition. That of being _alive_.

“One thing at a time.”

“One day at a time.”

The mantra. Time is disorientating, so she loses track.

_Dawn picked up her sword from the ground. It dripped with black goo from the last Leviathan she had beheaded. She walked carefully as the road continued to vibrate and shatter around her._

_She could count on her fingers the amount of Undead still moving, but they were beginning to fall to their knees. She felt her own strength being sapped away, barely able to lift the blade, her stride becoming a limp._

_The Leviathan had its back to her, reading Latin from a tattered book in its hand. Above it, the rift was reaching critical. The vortex of purple, blue and white light extending itself, cracking into reality. She thought she could see red eyes glaring at her through the sparks, ready to leap out._

_Dawn hobbled towards the Leviathan, fixated on its head._ This is it _, she thought_ , the last one standing _. She was almost close enough, but instead of lifting the sword, she fell forward with it._

_The noise from the rift was unbearable. Her braid began to whip around her with the monstrous wind emanating from the tear. The Leviathan was still reading from the book, its voice gaining power with every word._

_Dawn tried to stand, but her legs were useless. She reached for her crossbow, sliding it off her arm. Every movement felt weighted by lead._

_She wrenched the biggest arrow she had left from her back._

How am I going to load this thing? _She wondered, slotting the arrow into place, and trying to pull back the bow._

_She could not do it. She had no more strength._

_Defeated, her arms dropped to the ground. Her eyes began to close lazily._

_The Leviathan was nearing the end of the ritual._

_A calloused hand clamped on her shoulder. Dawn mustered her energy to turn to look at the owner. A soldier from her section. He was lying on his front as well, but his arms were able to work the bow. He wrenched back the string with a grunt, locking the arrow in place._

_“I’ll aim. You fire.” He yelled. Dawn meekly allowed him to position her arm, leaning on her to aim. “Do it!”_

_Dawn released the arrow. She felt her comrade collapse, rolling off her into rubble._

_The Leviathan began to scream as the arrow pierced right through its neck. The close-range split half of it, the head only hung on by a thick flap of skin. It dropped the notebook, sprawling onto the ground._

_With the Leviathan preoccupied, Dawn took her chance, dragging herself forward with her one remaining, working arm. She began to mutter an incantation, strained but clear._

_“Domine Deus forti.” She continued to pull herself as her arm began to fail. “Damnant quod bestia in purgatorium reservant.”_

_The Leviathan began to scream louder. It tried to lash out at Dawn but missed the mark with its dislodged head. Some rubble flicked into her eyes – she continued unperturbed._

_“Condemnant quod claudere portas ejus in aeternum,” She continued, finally reaching the notebook as her arm gave out._

_“Obsecro ut malediceret tibi malum hoc mutabatur hoc velum entitatem existantiae,” She edged the notebook towards her face with her hand, “ut vivat in aeternum in cavaem dabo.”_

_The Leviathan exploded. Black goo sprayed across the scene of destruction, across Dawn, across the notebook. Light began to emit from the book._

_“Tolle eam et omnes fratres ejus, et inhabitare facit unius moris in amore.”_

_The rift began to close, the creatures on the other side screaming. Dawn felt an ounce of strength reinhabit her. She pulled herself up onto her knees, cradling the book upwards – offering it to the rift._

_“O verax Deus exaudi orationem meam.”_

_The book was torn from her hands, thrown into the rift. The hole began to shrink, the wind buffeting stronger, a white noise and bright light overwhelming Dawn’s vision and hearing._

_She fell backwards, her curly hair springing out beneath her._

_Her eyes closed, and her body began to relax._

_As the light dissipated, a smile quirked up Dawn’s mouth before the final muscle in her body let go._

Dawn wakes in an unfamiliar room. It looks to be mid-morning. There are other patients around her for the first time.

A doctor is seated next to her, checking her charts, and making notes. He smiles at her as she sits up.

“How are we feeling today?” He places her clipboard into its holder. _Dr Pearlman_ , Dawn consciously recollects.

“Fine,” She blinks, surprised that she means it, “Good, actually.”

Pearlman flashes a sickly-sweet smile. “We think you’ll be ready to be discharged soon.”

Dawn shivers. “I don’t know if I’m ready…”

“You can’t stay here forever,” He chuckles, “To be frank, your friend has been putting pressure on us to discharge you for months, but we’ve been waiting for obvious improvement in your recovery.”

“ _Months_?” She says, incredulously. “How long have I been here?”

He exhales slowly, unable to make eye contact. “About eight. Maybe nine.”

Dawn slides into her bed. “What…”

“I can understand that must be a shock. You have been unconscious most of the time. Let me assure you that your physical health has greatly improved. We are very pleased with your progress and believe it will continue outside of our care.”

“My ‘progress’? Anything is better than ‘dead’, surely.”

Pearlman coughs. “Yes, even so. Since you were admitted alive, we can safely say you have improved from the condition you were in.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Dawn sighs, then frowns. “You mentioned ‘my friend’? Do you mean the guy in the trench coat?”

“Yes, he’s been very… persistent.”

“I bet…” Dawn rolls her eyes. “I hardly know him. I wouldn’t consider him a friend.”

Pearlman frowns. “We will have to conduct a final memory assessment before you’re discharged to understand the full extent of your amnesia. Your ‘acquaintance’ is waiting outside. He might help connect the dots.”

Dawn shrugs. As the doctor leaves, she reaches for a glass set by her. She cradles the cool object in her hands, condensation leaking through her fingers. She sees her distorted face in the ripples.

Dawn focuses on the water. There is something in her chest, a tugging feeling. Sadness, loss. Her situation begins to wash over her.

She is alone, she is alive. She is surviving again, and it is not her choice.

She thought about the memory that had returned to her in her sleep. She could remember how vulnerable she had felt as her legs gave out from under her. She had been so afraid that she would not make it to the book, that she would not remember the incantation, that she might not even be able to speak. It was when that soldier has helped her that she felt purpose return to her, and she realised there was no choice, there was no alternative to winning. She simply had to.

_What was his name?_

“Randy.” She breathes.

“No, I’m Castiel.” A gruff reply. Dawn looks up to meet the angel’s blue eyes. He is standing at the foot of her bed.

“I was trying to remember someone’s name.” She makes sure to keep her tone as cold and distant as his.

“So, you are remembering?”

“Last night, I remembered dying.”

Castiel tilts his head a little, squinting at her. “Which part?”

Dawn smiles. “Yeah, I guess I have to specify. When I died _again_ …”

“I am still not sure that I follow.”

“Right, uh…” Dawn chuckles softly at the absurdity of the situation. “When I collapsed after I closed the rift – so I was still ‘dead’, but I thought my soul was, uh, ‘crossing over’. I remembered walking towards the last Leviathan when everyone else had ‘died’- or ‘crossed over’. I remember falling and crawling because I was losing my energy. I remember closing the rift. And then… nothing.”

Racking her brain to explain herself was more taxing than she expected. She takes a sip of the water she has been cradling in her hands.

Castiel continues to squint at Dawn.

“I was trying to remember the name of the man who helped me take out the Leviathan.” She continues.

“Randy?”

“Yeah.”

“And after you collapsed, after you closed the portal, there was ‘nothing’?”

Dawn shrugs. “I remember feeling at peace… Then I remember pain, being afraid, complete anxiety and panic.”

She shivers.

“When you were, ‘alive’ again?” Castiel’s difficulty in finding the words to describe the situation makes Dawn smile.

“Yes. It was awful.”

Castiel nods. “To have your soul forced back into a working vessel where before, there was a disconnect… It seems like an unpleasant experience.”

“Indeed.” Dawn swallows.

Doctor Pearlman strides into the room, another clipboard in his hand to focus on. Castiel’s posture straightens, his squint replaced by a look of distrust towards the doctor.

“Well, I won’t keep you much longer Dawn. Your tests are looking promising, as I said earlier.”

“Good. We will be going now.” Castiel states, motioning to Dawn to get up.

“Not so fast – I would still like to conduct one last memory assessment on Ms Terrace. It won’t take long.”

Castiel grunts. “That won’t be necessary. Dawn has already begun to recollect her memories. I am sure with more time, they will all begin to return, as has been the case with the others.”

Pearlman rolls his eyes. “Sir, are you a health professional? I am concerned at your lack of empathy towards Ms Terrace’s condition. We must-”

“No, I am not a ‘health professional’, but I have a secure understanding of the situation’s context. More so than you.”

“Excuse me? Sir, I am telling you-“

“And _I_ am telling _you_ that the most important course of action at this moment is to protect Dawn. She has been unsafe in this environment for long enough-”

“Unsafe? Sir, this is a hospital!”

Castiel clenches his fist and grits his teeth. “I do not have time for-“

“Way to talk _about_ me and not _to_ me,” Dawn finally intercepts, “I’m right here, fellas.”

The two men turn to her. Dr Pearlman opens his mouth, but Dawn cuts him off.

“I appreciate your concern, Dr Pearlman, but Castiel is right. My memory is slowly coming back to me and I’m not sure how helpful your assessment will be.”

The doctor nods slowly. “If you are sure, Ms Terrace, then I can authorise your discharge. I cannot keep you against your will.” He turns to Castiel. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced _you_ , sir.”

Castiel’s body language is the epitome of tense, and the bite in the doctor’s comment does little to relax his shoulders and jaw.

“Thank you, Doctor Pearlman, for your work,” Dawn urges softly. He smiles at her.

“I was merely concerned because this morning, you seemed apprehensive about leaving.”

“I was,” Dawn feels her hand tremble as she places her cup back on the nightstand, “But it will only get worse if I stay.”

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.” Pearlman hands Castiel his business card. “I wish you the best of luck with your recovery, Dawn.”

She shakes his outstretched hand in shock. As Pearlman leaves, Dawn stares at her hand.

It is still quivering.

“That’s the first person I’ve touched since I was brought back.” She mutters.


	3. Simple Twist of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting uni again next week so won't be posting as often. Don't forgot to leave feedback if you have any :)

“What size are you?” The nurse’s back is to Dawn as she rifles through the linen cupboard.

“I’m not sure.” Dawn mumbles quietly.

“Let’s try these.” She smiles at her as she hands her a bundle of grey, cotton clothes.

Dawn trembles as she reaches for them. She cannot speak, she merely allows the hospital staff to shunt her along the formalities of being discharged.

“Bathroom is down the hall,” The nurse gestures vaguely, “Buzz me if they don’t fit.”

Dawn’s gait is unsteady. She was surprised she could stand when she stepped off her hospital bed, not trusting her legs. The world is on fast forward now that she has decided to leave, like the months she has been unconscious are catching up to her in the span of a few minutes. Reality is looming, and it is waiting for her behind the generic grey door ahead.

The cubicle contains a shower, toilet, sink and wall hooks. Dawn dumps the clothes onto the sink and, looking up, is affronted by her reflection. 

Her curly, red hair that once sat in a bob framing her face has grown past her shoulders. It is frizzy and unkept, a nest springing out. She notices that her forehead wrinkles more deeply than she remembers, and as she squints, crow’s feet marble her skin. Her eyes are a sharper green, hardened, where before they were soft, curious. As she reaches a hand to touch a scar on her cheek, she notices callouses on her fingers and wrists that were not there before.

She steps back from the mirror, her frame thin under the hospital gown – but not frail. Her arms are toned, a series of strange scars and blemishes pucker and nick every surface of exposed skin. As she undresses, she notices she is missing a little toe on her right foot, and a small chunk from her left shoulder blade. There is little fat on her, every part prepped and tenderised by training and battle.

She cannot look herself in the eye, so she turns away and starts to run a shower.

The clothes are too big, but she does not care. The fabric is prickly and simultaneously the softest thing she has felt since being on earth again. Grey tracksuit pants, a white shirt, a grey jumper. It covers the confronting industrial masterpiece of her body well, which is all she hopes for.

She combs her hair roughly with the plastic brush the hospital gave her, amazed at the wads of red coral being pulled from her scalp. She tries to smooth down the frizz halo with wet hands, to little success.

Hot water reveals patches of dry skin around her nose and mouth. She lathers moisturiser into the newly discovered nooks and crannies of her weathered face.

Dawn straightens up, forcing herself to make eye contact with her reflection. She does not remember who she was when she died, but she knows she is different. Stronger, but broken and used. She senses in the blankness of her stare there was a light in her eyes that has been snuffed out.

She breathes in slowly and deeply, letting it out in a sigh. She folds the thin hospital gown three times over her chest. She turns, and she faces the cubicle door. She gulps in one last breathe, before unlocking the door and stepping out.

Castiel looms over Dawn as she considers a copy of her discharge form. Her eyes fall onto a section outlining her age.

“I was twenty-five when I died,” She says, “This form says I’m thirty.”

“I suppose it has technically been thirty years since the year you were born.” Castiel sounds bored.

“Yeah, I guess time passes differently when you’re dead. But I’ve aged… That doesn’t make sense.” Dawn folds the paper up, agitated. “Shouldn’t I just look the way I did when I died?”

“Reanimation is a complicated process. It seems to differ for each individual. There is a theory that it has more to do with the soul than the vessel, and the circumstances of the reanimation.” 

“But I’m built like a soldier. That was the physical work from the war, not my soul.”

“Yes. Perhaps you’ve retained the training and damage your physical form withstood during your time as an Undead.” 

Dawn drops her head into her hands.

“This is all just theoretical. There’s so much shit I don’t understand. And as for ‘the circumstances of my reanimation’,” She mimics Castiel’s gravelly voice as she quotes him, “We don’t even know what those were.”

Castiel looks blankly at Dawn. She sighs, exasperated by his evasive responses.

“Where are we even going?”

“To a secure location.” He speaks in an even tone, like the response is a reflex.

“Where?”

He ignores her question. “Before that, to the old cabin you had during the war.”

“Why?”

“To gather your things, and to speed up your amnesia recovery. It has helped some of the others to return to familiar places.”

“Yeah, ‘the others’, you mentioned them – where are they? What happened to them?” Dawn begins to feel dizzy at the rate questions are rolling out of her, questions she forgot she had whilst recovering.

“Your questions will be answered. Right now, we need to leave.” Castiel reaches towards Dawn arm.

“But-“

Right as his hand touches her arm, they are gone, blowing a pamphlet off the counter in the process.

The ground crumbles and crunches under their feet where they land. A blackened dustbowl littered with dead trees sits before them, still and silent. A series of beige transportable buildings spaced equally apart line a disused dirt road. 

It is cold and overcast, a dreary grey colouring the scene.

“Where are we?” Dawn gulps.

“Your old zoning,” Castiel replies.

Dawn turns around to see much of the same behind them. Flat, grayscale earth. Everything dead or dying.

Dawn considers Castiel’s use of the word ‘zoning’. Something tugs at her recollection.

_Dawn stood in a small, low-ceilinged room crowded with other soldiers, all wearing the same armour – their uniform. She stands in a cluster closest to a floor-to-ceiling map of the world where a series of other maps are taped and strung. They are more detailed, of countries with red marks, and even more branching off these of counties, states, cities._

_The soldiers were accustomed to being instructed by beings that were not human, but they were never told_ what _they were, nor did they ask. Dawn was familiar with the signs of a demon – the acrid smell of sulphur, occasionally their eyes would turn black, generally mean, and crass – but she kept it to herself._

_Costello, who stood instructing the soldiers around her, was the exception. She openly admitted to her demonic disposition, revelling in the fear and respect it gleaned from those in her command. She was shorter than most but had pale, elvish qualities - long, silvery hair she often tied back in sleek ponytails, and sharp features. Although she enjoyed her infamy, Dawn always felt she was softer, more innocent, than the other demons she had known, and wondered if that was why she was employed as a ‘middleman’._

_She was explaining the segregated camps and zones, specifically where Dawn’s camp would be situated._

_“We’re putting you on the outskirts of the Cilentio and Vallo di Diano National Park in Southern Italy.” Costello pointed to a map of the park, outlining the edge closest to the mainland away from the Mediterranean. “We believe they may be opening the rift somewhere along the limestone gorges. At the least, there are several battles projected within the reserve.”_

_The soldiers nodded. Amongst the red splodges on the various maps, there were purple crosses that indicated projected high monster activity. The camps were being assigned different areas to take care of these ‘smaller’ issues before reconvening to deal with larger ones as they eventuated._

_"Be ready to move at a moment’s notice as we gain more intel. And don’t forget to let us know if any_ civilians _decide to snoop around.” Costello rolled her eyes._

Dawn blinks. She remembers going to Yucatan in Mexico after only a short time in Italy, then Protem in South Africa, and ending up here permanently.

“Somewhere in suburban Quebec, off the Trans-Canada Highway,” She recalls the words Costello rattled off as explanation before they were teleported to the new zone. “They never did give us any specifics.”

Castiel nods. “You never needed to know.”

Dawn considers the area sadly. “I guess we didn’t think we’d need to worry about how we left it, either…”

She walks forward, picking up blackened soil near the steps leading to her cabin, crushing the charcoal between her fingers.

_Dawn stood in a line-up of about twenty soldiers. Their Sergeant Major, Brown, or ‘Jerry’ to the higher-ups, paced in front of them, giving them the run-down of their training. He had a square, unnerving face - persistently stern. His cropped ginger hair was symmetrical and his uniform never out of place._

_“Some things I should remind you of before you commence training on Earth.” He spoke in typical drill sergeant fashion - loud, staccato. “You do not eat. You do not sleep. You do not drink. You do not_ breathe _. You do not_ bleed _. You are therefore on call twenty-four seven.”_

_The area around them had been flattened of shrubbery and trees. Dawn felt she had been dropped in a wasteland, that somehow this was not really Earth. In the distance, electric fencing was being set up around their zoning._

_“Camps are ‘mixed’ to ensure a well-rounded battalion. There will be no discrimination between those from Heaven and those from Hell. You are forbidden to discuss your origins, and you are forbidden to ask others of theirs. I do not know where you are from. I do not_ care _where you are from. It does not matter. You all have the same orders.”_

 _There was a wave of discomfort along the line. This was a rule that had been implied since the camps were put together, but only now explicitly mentioned. Early on, Dawn had heard rumours of fighting amongst lower ranking camps over training discrimination related to origins. Any talk about life before training was frowned upon, seen as a distraction from the task at hand. They were soldiers, and as far as anyone or any_ thing _was concerned, they had always been soldiers._

_“Every soldier has their own cabin to store armoury, weaponry and other necessities. You are allotted four hours a day of recreation time if you desire it. You may spend it in your cabin or elsewhere within the zone. Weapons training will take place at The Warehouse.”_

_Brown nodded behind the soldiers towards a huge metal structure overshadowing the cabins._

_“A reminder – zoning is implemented to separate us from civilian society. It is a necessary precaution to ensure the safety of civilians. Alert me immediately if you suspect a civilian has broken into the zoning. Alert me immediately if you hear any talk of leaving the zoning. We are here to protect humanity, not endanger it.”_

Dawn feels nauseous suddenly, leaning on the side of her cabin.

“Fucking hell,” She coughs, clutching her stomach.

“An aftereffect of the remembering, I am afraid,” Castiel observes, unmoving from the road, “It is a good sign.”

Dawn spits out bile, her eyes watering. She wipes her mouth, looking at Castiel with disdain.

“Being alive sucks.” She says quietly, before retching again. She recalls a time when an arrow in her shoulder, a slice in her skin, a bullet ricocheting off her armour, caused her no pain. Now, she is being throttled by mere memory.

“It has its limitations.” Castiel is using his bored tone again.

“Do you have somewhere else to be or something?” Dawn says resentfully.

Castiel nods towards the cabin door. “Once you are ready to enter, I will have to leave shortly to attend to some business.”

Dawn considers the door. “Do you have the key for that?”

Castiel merely relaxes his shoulders and the door unlocks itself, swinging open.

Dawn shakes her head disbelievingly. “Right. Angel.”

The cabin is a rectangular, white room. Half of it is set-up like a sitting area, with a single, plush chair and a plastic coffee table. There is a shelf nailed into the wall containing a line of pulp paperbacks, faded and dusty. An old box TV sits on a vinyl covered stand, peeling away at the corners, complete with an obnoxious antenna. 

The other side contains the cabin’s only window and a sink, with some tattered tea towels strewn about. There are flecks of blood still stuck to the tap. There is a wardrobe and drawers in the corner.

A longer, white, plastic table with two matching chairs sits in between.

No bed, no stove, no toilet. Just the necessities.

“Wow,” Dawn mutters flatly, her sneakers squeaking on the grey, linoleum floor, “Homely.”

Castiel appears by the sink in a flutter, making Dawn jump. “There are some bags in the cupboard for you to pack. We will not be coming back here again, so keep that in mind.”

“Could you not just use the stairs?” Dawn’s voice is breathless.

“As I said, I have some business to attend to. Please be ready in an hour.”

With that, he was gone.

“Prick.” Dawn mutters. She walks over to the sink, searching for a cup before realising she will not find one. She runs the tap, cradling her hands under it expectantly. The metal creaks and shudders but nothing comes out. Frustrated, Dawn turns it off and looks out the window.

_Dawn stomped into the cabin. She made a beeline to the sink, running the tap and washing blood from her hands, splashing some onto her face. She looked up at her window._

_Something in the reflection stopped her, her hand resting instinctively on her thigh where a concealed knife sat. She turned quickly around._

_A man stood in her cabin. He wore a trench coat and a cheap suit, with a ruffled blue tie. He was looking at her bookshelf._

_“Who are you and how the fuck did you get in here?” Dawn asked authoritatively. She kept her hand on her leg._

_“I know the Winchesters. My name is Castiel.” He said simply, still looking at the spines of her books._

_Her hand relaxed slightly at the mention of the brothers. “How did you-“_

_“You left the door unlocked.” He looked at her now. He had arresting blue eyes, his face equally as unkept as his attire._

_Dawn felt uneasy in his stare, looking away. She did not have time to remember if what he said was true or not. She scanned over his body to confirm he was unarmed before taking her hands off her knife._

_“Lots of people know the Winchesters. Why are you here?”_

_“It was my understanding that you knew them before your death. I was curious.”_

_Dawn frowned. “Curious?”_

_“Yes. You have an important role to play in this war. I wanted to speak with you to… gather intel.”_

_“How do you know that? And how do you know the Winchesters?”_

_“Dean Winchester is under my charge.”_

_“Your ‘charge’?”_

_“Yes. I raised him from perdition.”_

_Dawn’s eyes widened, her voice quiet. “Dean went to_ Hell _?”_

_Castiel’s head tilted a little, searching Dawn’s face. “Yes.”_

_Dawn sat heavily in one of the plastic chairs by the sink. “Jesus… For how long?”_

_“Four months.”_

_Dawn sat quietly a moment, processing the information. Her hand balled into a fist as she fixated on something Castiel had said. “Wait – you_ raised _him?”_

_“Do you have issues with hearing comprehension? I can speak louder if necessary.”_

_Dawn gave him an incredulous look, until she realised the earnest look on his face was genuine._

_“No. I’m just trying to work this all out.” She stood slowly, her hand resting on her knife again. “_ What _are you, Castiel?”_

_“I am not supposed to tell you.”_

_“As a soldier?”_

_“Yes. You are not privy to that information.”_

_“What about as a friend of the Winchesters?”_

_Castiel did not speak._

_“I know demons. You’re not a demon. I’ve killed shifters, werewolves, vampires… But I don’t get the feeling you’re one of those either. You remind me of some of the other, ‘non-human’ leaders we speak to.”_

_Castiel tilted his head to the other side, frowning._

_“There’s the demons. Then there’s whatever you are – I think – that have a stick shoved really far up your arses. Real mysterious… Righteous fuckers.”_

_“You should show respect.” Castiel’s voice hardened._

_Dawn smiled. “Sorry -_ powerful _, righteous fuckers.”_

_Castiel finally looked away from her. “I made a mistake coming here.”_

_Dawn changed tact and spoke with sincerity. “Castiel, talking to a friend of the Winchesters -_ what _are you?”_

_He looked at her but said nothing._

_“Listen… There’s a lot they don’t tell us. So much of what I think I know is rumours. It goes against so many fibres of my being not to ask questions. But I don’t. I’m here for a reason and that’s to fight and kill to protect.” She took her hand off her thigh again, pleading her case. “I’m good at it – but I’m not going to be around for very long. We have a short shelf life – you know that. So, it would be a small mercy to just know who we’re fighting for.”_

_“Are you trying to tell me that I can trust you?” Castiel asked after a beat._

_“I don’t think you would be here if you didn’t already know that.” Dawn challenged._

_Castiel stared down Dawn who stared back – an eye contact standoff ensured. She detected a small smile on his face develop._

_“Your door_ was _locked, I know your role in the war, and I raised Dean Winchester because I’m an angel of the Lord.”_

 _Dawn’s face hardened. Her mouth set in a hard line. “A_ what _?”_

_“An angel. It’s proven to be a difficult concept for most to grasp.”_

_Dawn’s teeth ground together. “I bet.”_

_She slid her hand under her armour and whipped out her knife, advancing towards Castiel quickly. She shoved him onto the wall. He did not resist._

_“God’s dead, Castiel.” She pressed her knife to his neck. “So, don’t fuck with me. I’m not in the mood.”_

_“I’m not.” He spoke calmly. “Dawn, after all you have seen, is it really so hard to believe in angels?”_

_“After all I’ve seen, Castiel, it is downright impossible for me to believe in ‘angels’. To believe in a god that would sit idly by amidst pain and hatred.”_

_Castiel said nothing. He looked at her expectantly. She gulped. Her rage began to quell._

_“What makes Dean Winchester so special?” She asked finally in a whisper._

_“He plays an important role in a different war.”_

_“Which war?”_

_“It does not concern you.” Castiel lifted a hand by his side and flicked his wrist. Dawn was shunted back a few metres, releasing him from the wall. “Your knife will do nothing to me. I have no intention of harming you, Dawn.”_

_She replaced her knife helplessly. “I think you had every intention of_ confusing _me.”_

_Castiel frowned. “Do not feel customary for not being raised, Dawn, it was a unique arrangement.”_

_“Pardon?” She sounded strained – between hurt and angry._

_“Dean being raised is not a common occurrence. Do not feel bad that it did not happen to you.”_

_“Shut up. We don’t talk about that kind of stuff.” She muttered petulantly._

_“If you do your part, Dawn, you will not have to go back.”_

_“Like I believe that…” She muttered._

_“You will deserve salvation.” He pressed. Dawn shook her head._

_“Save it, Castiel.”_

_He considered her for a moment. “Until next time.”_

_The sound of wings flapping indicated his disappearance. Dawn hugged herself in the silence._


	4. Beware of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide ideation

It has been a while since Dawn has had to keep track of time, or even consider it. Years. The months she has spent unconscious feel like a dream, the last few hours like days of her life. She looks around for a clock or watch, but discovers she has no way of knowing how long Castiel will be gone for. She is unsure she remembers how long an hour _feels_.

Dawn clutches onto the side of the sink. She is swaying slightly, closing her eyes tightly. She concentrates on the cool feeling of the metal on her fingertips slowly warming from her touch. She tries to grasp at fleeting thoughts related to the onslaught of remembrance overwhelming her, but she is unable to land on one thought or feeling.

Eventually, she gives up.

Dawn opens half the wardrobe and pulls out two olive green duffel bags. Above them hangs her old armour, shimmering grey blue. She pulls it out delicately.

It contains a full body covering with a high neck that looks like a wetsuit – tough and flexible. Over the body sits chest, sleeve, pelvis, and leg armour - an intricate, tessellating metal. Equally as flexible and shapely, it reminds Dawn of snakeskin. A thin helmet and mouth covering sit at the base of the cupboard, matching the colour and feel of the armour. Etched in these materials are tiny symbols that she does not recognise. She folds and bundles the clothing, amazed at how light it is.

There is a pair of gloves in the same wetsuit material, and black, leather combat boots as heavy to lift as they look. They are well polished, but are well worn, scuffed almost everywhere.

Dawn opens the other half of the wardrobe, and squints. Light reflects off the scabbard of a tall, broad sword leaning on its side. It is a steel grey, the hilt the same blue of her armour, etched with the same symbols. She tries to pick up the sword with one hand but almost falls with its weight. She manages with two.

As she lifts it, she feels a warmth rush through her wrist and arms, the symbols on the scabbard shimmering slightly. Dawn places the ensemble gingerly by her bags, shuddering as she lets it go, afraid of the power she feels. A power that runs deeper than her conscious memory, into the memory of her muscles and an attachment in her soul.

Standing by her sword is an empty, metal quiver, its strap the same material as her armour plating. Dawn braces herself for another heavy lift but finds it weightless. She slips it into a duffel bag. She notices her hands are shaking again. She ignores a growing unease in her stomach.

The wardrobe empty, Dawn opens a set of drawers nearby to find a small crossbow and a silver dish that could pass for an elbow pad. They are surrounded by utility and garter belts, daggers and knives embedded in them. She straps the crossbow to the outside of a bag and slips the knives carefully in-between her armour. When she picks up the silver dish, she stops.

_Dawn sat in the same, low-ceilinged room hosting the wall of maps. This time, a small group of soldiers sat rigidly around Costello addressing them at a huge, timber table. Looking down the line, Dawn recognised Sargent Major Brown, and a handful of other soldiers she had met in passing during zone changeovers._

_“As you are all aware, the way information is exchanged in this bureaucracy is, well,_ bureaucratic _,” Costello rolled her eyes, “You are privy to this information straight from the demon’s mouth as high-ranking soldiers. You are expected to keep it confidential.”_

_She gave them a sharp look. “Clear?”_

_In unison, the soldiers responded, “Clear!”_

_Costello grinned impishly, and turned towards her maps, pointing at the purple splodges within the red circles. “You’ve been informed these symbols indicate high monster activity, but you may notice they differ in shape and size.”_

_Some were purple asterixis, some were circles, others squares and triangles._

_“Each symbol represents a different type of monster, and some indicate mixed types,” She turned to face the group, “There are certain weaknesses developing between Purgatory and Earth where monsters are banding together from where they have escaped - namely vampires and werewolves. They refuse to work with other species. They like to keep to their families… or packs.”_

_Costello was amused at some of the shocked faces of the soldiers. This was the first time they were informed of what they were dealing with specifically, outside of the general term of ‘monsters’._

_“Of course, they all answer to the Leviathans in some way or another. Skinwalkers and shapeshifters are less predictable, some seem to be mixing while others are sticking together. Ghouls and Rugurus are a common team, wraiths and banshees another…”_

_She paused for dramatic effect, challenging the soldiers with a sly look as she rattled off names. Her gaze settled on Dawn, who seemed resolutely unperturbed by the rollcall. They maintained eye contact as she continued._

_“In any case, you will be instructed in the correct strategy and execution as you are deployed in hot zones. You will pass on these instructions to your low-ranking comrades, but you will not reveal more detail than necessary. The less humanity knows about these unfortunate, unprecedented times, the better. You will have more than just me to answer to if these conditions are not abided.”_

_She winked at them and looked upwards suggestively._

The dish has a small handle on its inside, big enough for one hand. As she holds it, Dawn’s finger instinctively presses lightly on a tiny pressure switch above it. The dish extends silently into a larger circle, big enough to cover her chest. Like her quiver, it is weightless despite the metal layers radiating from the centre, etched with the symbols from the rest of her equipment. They shimmer as Dawn moves.

 _My shield_ , she remembers. Her free hand clenches.

She releases the switch to shrink the shield back into elbow-pad size. As she slips it into a bag with her other equipment, she feels compelled to pick up her sword again.

The warmth radiates through her arms. She unsheathes it, the blade shining brilliantly in the light, perfectly silver. Runes and miscellaneous occult symbolism adorn its fuller, the edges clean of writing and a steel grey. Its point is gilded with gold, mingling with the silver in a still, fluid state, like ink suspended in water.

Effortlessly, she swings the sword around her head, intuitively stepping back and grounding her feet – muscle memory. She stoops and juts the blade forward, her movement effortless and flexible. She swings low, contorting her body to follow.

Dawn remembers elasticity in her legs that would carry and pivot her. She remembers how to trust her body to protect itself and serve her. The muscles in her arms know when to attack and when to defend an imaginary opponent. Training has etched itself into the sinews and tendons of her being, through her body and through her mind.

Dawn remembers – she is a close-combat specialist. Her training contained elements of martial arts, gymnastics, fencing, and boxing, and she was one of the best at hand-to-hand combat. She made sure to make her fists and body movement as intimidating as her broad sword, finding its weight and size cumbersome. She is accurate with her crossbow, but not as skilled as her comrades trained in long-ranged weaponry and defence. It was more of a last resort but has still gotten plenty of use.

She straightens, her body trembling. She sheaths her sword, lying it by her bags. She can hear her heart in her ears, her breath rasping rapidly. She leans forward, pressing her hands into her pant legs to still them. She stares at a spec of dirt on the floor to focus her vision.

Each spine has a thick layer of dust lining their tops and embedded in the creases and tears of the covers. There is a clear divide in the bookshelf of well-read editions, and those hardly touched.

There is a Jane Austen omnibus with an exposed spine, a copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_ from the 70s by the looks of the faded cover illustration, and a _1984_ and _Animal Farm_ bind-up with various pages dog-eared. A mouldy, leatherbound _Volume 1 of Selected Prose of the 20 th Century _is split clean in the centre of its spine, the glue disintegrating in Dawn’s fingers as she lifts it.

Less used but still ruffled is _Looking for Alibrandi_ with yellowed pages, a musty smell wafting from its shelf. A sun-bleached _Bell Jar_ is warped from where it sits sandwiched between a thick paperback, _The Eye of the World_ , and a long hardback, _Guide to Stargazing_.

On the shelf below is the thickest layer of dust – a row of _Mills & Boon_ pulp romances barely moved. Dawn chooses not to pack those.

She moves along the wall to find a calendar nailed to the wall. It sits on February 2007.

_A cavernous room was lit by a sparse smattering of torches and candles. Dawn leant against a stone pillar as Crowley paced the group in the dungeon._

_He was a short, balding, sassy demon who dressed in dark suits. He was the best businessman Hell had made, and he held the spot as the most successful crossroads demon on the market. He creeped Dawn out, but it might have been his English accent that reminded her of where she grew up._

_He had summoned several groups of soldiers-in-training and seemed to enjoy the drama he controlled by not speaking for some time. Merely, he smiled and looked each person in the eye as he stalked around them._

_Dawn held his gaze impassively before he finally spoke._

_“You have all performed satisfactory in your training and will be granted access to the top in time.” He gave them a half-hearted smile. “You’ll be sorted into ranked groups are your training progresses.”_

_He stepped away, eyeing them again. “Any questions?”_

_“Why don’t we train on Earth? Why can’t we go up_ now _?” Someone asked. A question on everyone’s mind – since the deal had been brokered, they were desperate to see their old home again._

 _Crowley nodded slowly. “Once you’re all up the top, you’re_ living _on borrowed time, if you pardon the expression. The spell that is animating your corpse only lasts for approximately a month. It will vary depending on your will.”_

_Dawn straightened off the pillar. A wave of confusion twisted through the group. Crowley enjoyed the discomfort._

_“We have to get the timing right with what we’re calling, ‘The Final Battle’. The showdown with the big daddy monsters when they eventually try and open a permanent rift between Purgatory and Earth. Until we get solid intel, it’s better to keep you all down here until we need you. We don’t want your clocks running out prematurely.”_

_“What happens after that?” Someone else asked. There was a collective gulp at the prospect._

_“You will lose your strength slowly and lose control of your vessels. Then you’ll… die. I guess.” Crowley shrugged, smiling. “We don’t really know. This is all new to us too. Be grateful you don’t have to contend with the metaphysics of it all.”_

_Dawn frowned. “Who exactly is ‘us’?”_

_Crowley stopped pacing. “Demons.”_

_“And?”_

_He stopped smiling, his eyes darkening. “You know better than to ask.”_

_Dawn swallowed and looked away._

Dawn remembers being selected for her high performing group, and then being taught the Latin incantation she recited to close the rift. Even then, she did not know she was preparing for The Final Battle.

Dawn moves around the cabin gathering the rest of her things. She feels as if she is in a daze, not consciously aware of her actions as she goes. Her mind is blank, strained from the snippets of memory leaking through her amnesia. When one question is answered, several more are asked. She gets the sense she is in the eye of the storm, and there is more to come – surrounding her, tearing around.

The contents of the cabin barely take up one bag, her weaponry doing most of the work. She zips up the last of what she has scrounged. A wave of dizziness forces her to sit. Her shoulders and neck are so tense, she hears a creak from her muscles as she lands.

She can feel a headache building in her temples. Her forehead is slick with sweat despite the cool temperature. There is a deep uneasiness contorting her stomach. All the while, always shaking and trembling, ever since she got out of the hospital.

Dawn cannot remember stillness. She covers her face with her hands, trying to slow her breathing. She thinks she must be afraid, but her mind is too vacant to understand why. She presses her fingers lightly against her eyes, sending a myriad of colours and patterns into her vision.

Slowly, she takes her hands away from her face. She looks to the window overlooking the wasteland around. She feels a chill shudder through her. She takes deep, intentional breaths, observing a dead tree jutting from the ashen ground. It is missing most of its limbs, its trunk blackened, but still, it reaches towards the grey sky.

_It was dark, a crimson edge to sensations and images perceived in the blackness. Impenetrable blackness. A sound, if it was a sound at all, appeared like an image, a taste, or a feeling, the brain so desperate to make something out of anything it confused itself. She did not know if she was moving when she willed herself to reach out, to shift, to stand. There was nothing to feel or indicate she had moved at all. There was simply an underlying pain that reminded Dawn she was conscious._

_Then – it was interrupted. Yanked from the blackness and thrown into torchlight by a river of blood and banks of coal. She was dragged catatonic, assaulted by clear images, feelings, tastes, sensations, her senses working overtime._

_She did not know how long she was dragged for. She was dropped in room with other people, all like her – she assumed. Covered in dirt, soot, and dried blood. They were all lying or sitting on the dirt floor, unable to conceive of standing. Some were crawling around, trying to communicate with each other. Dawn sat upright and squinted as a man strolled in._

_He was disgusted by his audience._

_“I’m Crowley,” He stated, wrinkling his nose, “And I’m here to make a deal with you.”_

_No one acknowledged him. Some were touching each other’s faces, a tactile novelty. Dawn lifted herself onto her knees and tried to stand._

_Crowley took no notice. “Get up you lazy shits!” He yelled suddenly, his patience a short fuse. “Show some goddamn respect.”_

_He loosened his tie as his voice broke, changing tact. “I need you all to focus. This is some earth-shattering stuff, you’re lucky to even be conscious of it.”_

_Slowly, everyone started to rise. Some helped each other, others shrieked at the touch of another. A few stayed lying on the floor. Dawn wondered if they were even aware they had moved._

_“I’m only going to say this once, so you’d better pay attention,” He smiled, “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”_

_Dawn found a wall she could lie on as she stood, afraid her knees would give out._

_“There’s a war coming, on Earth, and we need souls to fight it._ Human _souls. You’re both dispensable, and immune to warding. I don’t care if you’re following what I’m saying or not, it will all begin to make sense if you accept my terms.”_

_He was addressing the masses of confused faces around him. Dawn wondered if it was the concept of specifying a ‘human’ soul that had started the uncertainty. She could not remember what it was like to be ignorant of a world of monsters._

_“Your pathetic, weak, deprecated souls are actually ideal for this excursion as you’ve already proven you’ll gladly throw your lives away.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, I get it. If I were still human, I’d off myself too.”_

_He made eye contact with Dawn as he gazed around the room. He winked at her. “So here are the terms: If you join me, you will get trained up and made into soldiers to fight this war. You will not ask questions. You will follow your orders. You’ll be our cattle to fodder as we please. The trade off? Aside from a purpose? A brief foray into life again? A holiday on your beloved planet Earth?”_

_The way he darted his head from side-to-side as he spoke reminded Dawn of a cobra._

_“A one-way trip upstairs, my friends. Your soul gets a second chance at judgment. If you follow through with this process, you get to go to Heaven.”_

_Dawn’s mouth fell open. She had readily accepted the concept of Hell, but never thought a Heaven was possible._

_A pale man spoke. “How do we know you’re not lying?”_

_Crowley grinned. “Trust me. I wouldn’t want to speak to you unless I absolutely had to.”_

_Dawn thought back to the impenetrable blackness. The underlying pain. The occasional burst of crimson when she thought she heard something. The absolute disorientation. She thought back to dread, depression, suffering, loneliness, and doubt._

_“I’m in.” She croaked. Crowley’s eye flicked to hers._

_“Great.” He snapped his fingers._

Dawn’s knuckles are white as she grips the arms of the chair she is in. Her stomach flips, she is sweating profusely. She stands, almost stumbling from dizziness, running towards the sink. She retches, her throat burning from bile.

As she heaves over the sink, she sees the bile turn to black like the dirt and soot that was constant in Hell. When she blinks, it is the yellow of stomach acid again.

She blinks, and the cabin dissolves away. She is standing by a dead tree with a body hanging from it.

She blinks and steadies herself on the plastic table behind her.

She blinks, and the body hanging from the tree is hers. Bloated and rotting. The sky is red, the smell of sulphur itches her nostrils.

She blinks, the table shifts under her weight, and she falls. The fluorescent light buzzes.

She blinks – she steps away from the tree in shock, covering her mouth with her hand to stop the smell. She steps into something wet, and screams.

She shuts her eyes, screaming. It was a puddle of blood. The ground is black, uneven, as she runs. She can hear whispering. She sobs to drown out the voices. She shuts her eyes to ignore hands pulling her to the ground, dragging her towards the river of blood. She yells as fingernails cut into her skin, clawing it away, desperate.

_“Why do they want to get to Earth?”_

_Crowley scoffed at the question. “Constant supply of food. If they get killed, they can just come right back. Like a buffet.”_

_Dawn stood with her newly formed camp. They were being briefed before going to Earth, in a strange, transient dimension. She could not say if it was Heaven, but it was certainly not Hell. Everything was beige or brown, with wood panelling and plastered walls._

_Crowley leant forward. “It’s preferable to only have to worry about demons doing that, trust me.”_

_Randy was asking questions. Crowley had promised them they had one session of Q &A before it was, ‘Shut up and do the work’ again. _

_“Why are we being brought up now?”_

_“While the Leviathans are trying to open a permanent portal, they’ve been opening up a bunch of other, prototype portals, you could say. All over the world. And pockets of monsters are getting out and need to be controlled.”_

_“So, we’re hired pest controllers until the queen bees show up?” Dawn asked._

_“In a manner of speaking.”_

_“And if we are killed,” Randy continued, “We go to Heaven?”_

“Dawn?”

_Crowley grimaced. “In theory.”_

_“In theory?!” Sargent Brown demanded._

“Dawn!”

_“I don’t make the rules, champ. That’s up to the man upstairs.”_

_Dawn rolled her eyes._

**“Dawn!”**

_“If it were up to me, you’d stay rotting.” Crowley shrugged. The Sargent flashed him a dark look. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re going to be hard to kill. That is, until, your time runs out.”_

**“Can you hear me?”**

Dawn is being shaken. She can barely breath, hyperventilating.

“Dawn, can you stand?” The gruff voice of Castiel is booming at her. She struggles to focus on his face, the image swimming out of focus. She can feel a trail of bile dripping down her chin.

“Water…” She croaks, pointing at the sink vaguely. She clutches at her chest, her heart thumping violently. She is covered in sweat, shaking from a chill that has overcome her.

She is sitting on the floor of the cabin. She is not covered in dirt, her skin is intact and the only discernible smell is the musty odour of a room closed off from the world.

She hears Castiel running the tap.

“It’s not connected…” She cannot finish the sentence between quick breaths. He reappears a moment later holding a cup of water to her.

 _Angel_ , she remembers. She coughs as she gulps it down quickly, choking on it. She stops to slow her breathing.

“What happened?” Castiel demands. “Can you stand?”

Dawn focuses on the act of drinking. He impatiently attempts to lift her to her feet, uncaringly leaving her to lean on the table herself. Her underarms ache from where he handled her.

She finishes the glass, desperately trying to calm down.

“Dawn, we need to-“

“Castiel,” She spits sternly, “I need a moment. Please.”

Dawn sits and shuts her eyes. She puts her face in her hands to block out the burning light. She focuses on counting her breaths, holding them for as long as she can, letting them go slowly. Although her shaking does not stop, eventually her chest slows, and she can hear sounds other than her heartbeat in her ears.

She drinks another glass of water.

When she can open her eyes and assesses the room, she notices a strange look on Castiel’s face.

“Concern doesn’t look right on an angel’s face.” She says simply.

Castiel’s forehead only creases more deeply. “Are you feeling better?”

“Why do you care suddenly?”

Castiel looked away. “I did not appreciate the extent of your situation.” He met her eyes again. “I apologise for that.”

Dawn let the silence simmer.

“There have been cases with some of the others, portraying false symptoms in order to be checked back into a hospital. Running away…” He stopped himself. “I have been neglecting your needs. That is unacceptable.”

Dawn shifted in her seat. “I had hallucinations. I couldn’t work out what was memory and what was real…”

Castiel nodded. “It was irresponsible of me to leave you alone in a vulnerable state.”

Dawn frowned. “It’s fine… This is weird. You are being ‘nice’ – it’s weird.”

He uncrossed his arms, allowing them to drop by his sides. “You may not remember, but during the war, we developed an understanding beyond species deviation.”

Dawn’s nose wrinkled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel squinted and tilted his head. “I believe you called it friendship.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is appreciated ! Don't forget to let me know if you want me to continue with the series x


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